Sandra had always wondered what lay behind the permanently locked door on the top floor of her grandmother’s Victorian house.
As far as she knew, no-one had ever been allowed access, not her mother or her aunt.
Now, the decorative key lay in her palm, which was clammy with anticipation and perhaps a little fear.

The key turned without issue or undue pressure, and the door opened on silent hinges to reveal the most wondrous sight.

The child’s nursery was spotlessly clean and tidy.
The blinds were modern and a contrast to the robin’s egg blue walls, but the carpet was threadbare where the rocking horse had been ridden over countless years.
The pull-along cart horse stood obediently by its side, no longer attached to its tasselled tartan rope.
The hand painted china faces of two dolls smiled through rosebud lips from the crib in the corner, completely separated from the Tudor design dolls house beneath a familiar picture.
Sandra recognised it from the black and white photograph on the parlour mantle, but this was in full colour, depicting her mother as a child.

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